I’m glad they’re pleased. Word of mouth is the best advertising. Still, I can’t deny how tired I feel. In the past four days I’ve maybe had nine hours of sleep, total. Eva, as usual, has had even less, staying up until three in the morning washing windows and ironing cloth napkins, polishing brass, and setting up VCRs. I marvel at her energy. Things have rebounded between us. She wants this to work as much as I do. Maybe even more.
I’m relieved, of course, since after that episode on the highway, I had started to think maybe Eva really was as unstable as Jeff had charged. I’d insisted that she start seeing a therapist. “Therapy is a good thing, Eva, nothing to be ashamed of,” I told her. “You need someone to process your grief with. Losing Steven isn’t something that you can process all by yourself, or with me.”
She agreed, and immediately I felt better. I gave her a list of names of local therapists that I admired, and she promised to choose from among them. She hesitated when she saw all of the names were women—“I’ve never been as comfortable with women as I have with men,” she said—but I urged her to work through her feelings. It could make for very good therapy, I argued.
Who she ultimately chose I still don’t know: I haven’t wanted to badger her or appear to be supervising her. We’re partners, friends, equals. But whoever she’s seeing seems to be doing a good job. For the past few weeks Eva’s been like her old self: confident, wise, strong.
“They seem to be enjoying themselves,” she says, coming up behind me.
“Hey,” I reply, turning around. I wasn’t even aware of her approach. “I don’t want you walking on that.”
She slips an arm around my waist. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “Your tender loving care did the trick. It’s all I needed. Besides, I can’t miss out on this. This is it, Lloyd. Our dream come true.”
I smile, dropping my arm around her shoulders. “And to you goes most of the credit.”
Even this afternoon’s gala was largely orchestrated by her. Catered by a couple of top-notch local chefs, the spread is both delectable and elegant: caviar, gingered scallops, flame-roasted pears, chocolate-covered strawberries. Candles flicker everywhere. The wine flows freely.
Drake catches my eye again from across the room. I smile, and he raises his glass.
“What a handsome man,” Eva says, observing. “Who is he?”
“His name is Drake. He’s—an old friend.”
“Very handsome. Classic, even.”
“Mmm.” I watch him. He’s now talking with Henry and Shane and Brent. Yes, Drake is indeed classically handsome. Tall, square-jawed, silver-haired. The penultimate New England Wasp. When I first moved apart from Jeff, I saw a lot of Drake, who’d been very persistent in trying to win me over—determined, in fact, to get me to move in with him. But as much as I liked him, as much as I found him very attractive, something always held me back.
Something named Jeff.
I scan the crowd again. Still no sign of him. We haven’t spoken much since Valentine’s Day, but my anger toward him has subsided and I find myself, yet again, hoping against hope. Henry told me he presumed Jeff was coming, but admitted he hadn’t talked to him in a few days. I’d sent Jeff an E-mail reminding him of the opening and asking him to come, but I never got a response. There’s absolutely no excuse if he doesn’t show. The weather’s fine for either driving or flying—an early taste of spring, in fact: warm and sunny, with the sun spilling in from the windows, including the new one that completely opens up the kitchen. We couldn’t have asked for a better kickoff for our venture.
Suddenly hands are covering my eyes. “Guess who?”
“Uhhh …”
The hands disappear. A face moves into view. It’s Ty.
“How soon they forget,” the attorney says, smirking. “Hey, you’ve got a packed house. Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling ridiculously uncomfortable all at once, with Ty grinning at me, Eva at my side, Drake watching me from across the room, and Jeff expected any minute.
Ty reaches down to kiss Eva on the cheek. “And hello to you, too, darling,” he says. “Keepin’ the boys entertained?”
She smiles tightly. “Help yourself to a glass of wine, Tyrone. And there’s plenty to eat.”
He winks at me as he moves across the room.
Eva’s hurt, I can tell, that Ty greeted me first, and far more enthusiastically than he did her. I place my arm around her shoulders again. “You doing okay?” I ask softly.
“I’m just tired.”
“As well you should be. You’ve been working your butt off nonstop. I want you to take a few days’ rest after these guests leave. Our next crew doesn’t arrive until the weekend, but then it’s nonstop for the rest of the season. So I want you to rest up. Okay?”
She smiles up at me and pats my hand on her shoulder. “Ay, ay, Captain.”
“We should mingle,” I say. “Come on. You haven’t met Henry and Shane yet.”
We cross the room, excusing ourselves past people who all repeat the same congratulations, the same good-lucks. I spy Drake off to one side, shaking Ty’s hand. His eyes, however, never leave me for long. He’s making me distinctly uncomfortable.
“Well, here comes our handsome host,” Brent says as we approach.
I smile. “I’d like you all to meet my partner—er, I mean, my partner in Nirvana, my business partner—Eva Horner.” Isn’t it weird how a word like partner, which is really the only way to describe Eva, has taken on a romantic connotation within gay culture? I withdraw my arm as she steps forward a little bashfully. “Eva, this is Henry, Shane, and Brent.”
“Bravo!” Shane crows, clapping his hands. “I had no idea what to expect of this place. So many guest houses are tacky affairs. But this! I am so impressed with the style and the obvious care you have put into it!”
“Oh, my, thank you so much, Shane,” she says, clearly touched.
“It really is fabulous,” Henry agrees.
I feel a hand on my back. Two hands, actually. I turn. Drake and Ty are both behind me.
“What charming friends you have here, Lloyd,” Ty says, indicating Drake.
Drake’s eyes are locked on mine. “Well, when one is as charming as Lloyd, his friends can only be the same.”
So smooooth. They’re both so goddamn smooth.
“How are you, Drake?” I ask.
He kisses my check. “You know the answer to that question, handsome,” he says, winking.
I force my eyes not to roll. I introduce him to Eva.
Drake extends his hand and Eva takes it warmly. “I was just delighted to get an invitation in the mail,” he tells her, but his eyes are still on me. “A wonderful excuse to see Lloyd again. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Lloyd?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s been a while.”
“Where’s Jeff, by the way?”
I feel myself flush. “He’ll be here.”
Drake just smiles and nods.
“Is it true,” Shane’s asking Eva in a mock-conspiratorial stage whisper, “that you do impressions of Mae West?”
She blushes, slapping my shoulder playfully. “Oh. Has Lloyd been telling tales out of school again?”
“I was just bragging about your talents.”
“Please!” Shane actually gets down on his knees, looking like the jolly green giant on TV. “Will you do it for us?”
“Oh, I couldn’t …”
“Just one little ‘Come up and see me sometime’?” Shane begs.
“She hurt her ankle earlier,” I explain.
“Now, don’t be party poopers,” Brent scolds.
Eva laughs. “Well, maybe after some of these other people have left.”
“Okay,” Shane says, standing. “Then it’s a promise.”
She laughs again. Gay men certainly do seem to take to her, and she certainly seems at home with them. They’re all smiling at her, Henry commenting on her black velvet pantsuit and Shane admiring her ruby brooch. I step back a bit
to watch them fuss over her, then notice that alone among them, Drake isn’t paying attention. He’s still looking at me.
“You must be very proud of this achievement,” Drake says quietly, moving closer. “I had no idea you wanted to open a guest house.”
I nod. “It just sort of came to me one day. I guess I’ve been looking for something to do for a while.”
He keeps staring at me. It’s really making me uneasy.
“It’s been a long time,” he says again, sipping his wine.
“Yes. Since Javitz’s memorial service, I think.”
“I saw you a few times afterwards.” Drake smiles, flashing his steel blue eyes. “In my dreams.”
I want to barf. What had I ever seen in this guy? He thinks he’s so suave, so sophisticated. I look around to be rescued by someone. Anyone.
The timing couldn’t be worse. There, in the doorway, is Jeff.
Jeff
“Oh, just great,” I groan. “Just fucking great.”
“What?” Anthony asks, coming up behind me.
“Oh, only somebody I didn’t expect to see and really wished I never would again.”
Lloyd has spotted me. I watch as he makes a beeline away from Drake toward me.
“Cat!” he calls. “You’re here!”
We kiss quickly, perfunctorily, on the lips. “You remember Anthony?” I ask.
“Sure, sure, hi,” Lloyd says, not even shaking his hand. He takes my arm. “I can’t wait to show you all we’ve done.”
“A good turnout,” I say, looking around. “You invited a lot of people.” A beat. “A few I didn’t expect.”
Lloyd stops in his tracks and looks over at me. “He’s on my mailing list. I wasn’t even aware he got an invitation.”
“Yeah, whatever. Anthony, you want a glass of wine?”
Lloyd lets go of my arm. “All of our old friends are here.”
“I see them,” I say, pouring myself and Anthony some wine.
Oh, yes, I see them. It was only with major reservations that I came here at all today. The idea of walking into a roomful of people I haven’t seen in quite some time is almost as unnerving as the prospect of having to deal with Eva again. No, it’s not a day I’ve been looking forward to, despite how much I’ve been missing Lloyd. Part of me wanted to be spiteful and stay home: after all, he’s apparently been too busy to respond to any of the E-mails I’ve sent him. E-mails in which I’ve tried to reconnect, tried to establish something—tried in my own feeble way not to let him go.
I hand the glass of wine to Anthony, who accepts it gratefully, as if he wanted something to do with his hands. I know Anthony feels awkward coming here, too; he was nervous the entire flight over on Cape Air, and it wasn’t just the ride in the eight-seater plane that made him anxious. He knew there would be people here who would view him with some degree of suspicion, or even hostility: all my old friends, who’ve been rooting for a reconciliation between Lloyd and me. It’s been a reminder to him that things aren’t as free and clear as we’ve been pretending they are these last few weeks.
It’s been easy to live with illusions. At the Black Party last week in New York, Anthony used the word “boyfriend” to describe me for the first time. “Is it so?” Eliot asked me. “Has our Jeff really been snared again?” I let it go for the time being. A heady conversation about relationships was the last thing I wanted to get into while watching a couple of porn stars rim each other on stage.
But ever since I suggested we come to Provincetown for Lloyd’s opening, Anthony’s been edgy, and now Lloyd’s discourteous greeting has only made things worse. It’s not like Lloyd to be so abrupt.
“Do you want a tour?” he’s asking.
“Maybe in a bit,” I say. “I don’t want to keep you from your guests. You were in the middle of what looked like a deep conversation when I came in.”
Anthony pulls away a little from us, pretending to admire a painting on the wall.
Lloyd moves in close to me and speaks in a lowered voice. “Knock it off, Jeff. I was just talking with him. I have been waiting all day for you to get here. Don’t start with attitude.”
I really don’t want to be a jerk. I did come with the best intentions. “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. No more about Drake.”
“That cleared up,” Lloyd says, lowering his voice even further, “why’d you bring him?”
“Anthony? What was I going to do? Leave him sitting alone in my living room?”
“You have before.”
“But this was a party.”
Lloyd rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
I shake my head. “You know, Lloyd, every time we’ve seen each other for the past three months, we get into something right off the bat.” I feel genuinely sad all of a sudden. Was it just a few months ago that everything had seemed to be going so rosy?
Lloyd sighs. “I’m sorry, Jeff. You’re right. We should just let it go.”
We smile wanly at each other. Anthony approaches us again. “It’s a really nice house, Lloyd,” he says carefully.
Lloyd extends his hand. They shake. “Thanks, Anthony. I’ll be glad to give you a tour. There’s plenty of food, so help yourself, okay?”
“Thanks!” Anthony beams at the change in attitude.
Lloyd turns back to me. “I should mingle. But I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”
I nod. I watch him move off. Oh, man, I wish I hadn’t come. My eyes fix on Lloyd and Eva as they move through the crowd together, stopping to talk with people, basking in their goodwill and congratulations. At one point Eva even slips her arm through Lloyd’s. It’s like a goddamn wedding reception, that’s what it is.
“Jeff O’Brien!”
I turn. It’s my old friend Chanel. Once we were as thick as thieves, the first person either of us would call whenever anything good or bad happened in our lives. She helped us care for Javitz in his final illness, and next to Lloyd and me, she was probably the one who loved him best. We have a lot of history, Chanel and I.
But times have changed. Javitz is dead and Chanel is now a mom, and we don’t call each other anymore. She’s heading toward me, leading her three-year-old daughter Gertrude by the hand. They make the most multi-culti family you can imagine: Gertie was born in China, Chanel in the Philippines, and the other mommy, Wendy, is a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. I smile as they approach.
“Gertie, scold Uncle Jeff for never coming to see you,” Chanel says.
“Bad Unca Jeff.”
I try to laugh. “I see we’re teaching our children how to impose guilt at an early age.”
Chanel eyes me stiffly. “We miss you, that’s all.”
We exchange brief kisses. “Chanel, Gertie, this is my friend Anthony.”
She gives him only the briefest of acknowledgments, keeping her eyes on me. “Jeff, how are you?” she asks. “Seriously. I ask Lloyd about you all the time. I haven’t heard from you in months.”
“I’m sorry, Chanel. I’ve just been busy.”
“Busy with what?”
I stammer a little. “Well, I’ve been traveling …”
She harrumphs. “You haven’t been busy writing; I know that much.”
I’m getting a little annoyed at her attitude. “You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t. You’re right. And why don’t I know? Because I never hear from you.”
Anthony leans in a bit. “I’m going to get some more wine. Can I get anybody anything?”
I shake my head and Chanel ignores him. Anthony moves away as quickly as he can. I don’t blame him.
“Chanel,” I say, trying to smile, “you know I don’t take well to being interrogated.”
She smirks, nodding her head in Anthony’s direction. “Is he one of your circuit-party boys? Is that where you met him? Are you doing drugs, Jeff? I’ve read the articles about the circuit scene. I know what goes on at those things. Raising all this money supposedly to fight AIDS while encouraging all sorts of unsafe sex and drug use.”
<
br /> I blink my eyes in disbelief. “Chanel, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She scowls. “I’m sorry if I sound bitchy, but I worry about you.”
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop. Being bitchy and worrying.”
She sighs. Gertrude is standing at the edge of a table, popping grapes from a platter in her mouth. “That’s enough, sweetheart,” Chanel says, taking her hand. “They give you gas.”
“So how are you?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “Gertie’s gotten so big—”
“I’m angry with you, Jeff,” Chanel says, spinning on me suddenly. She draws herself up straight. “I just can’t stand here and make small talk with you.”
“Well, okay.” I try once again to smile, to get her to laugh. “Shall we sit and make small talk, then?”
She seems infuriated that I’m not giving her what she wants. And what is that? Repentance? Humility? Mea culpas? A quick and easy reconciliation with Lloyd so that everything could be just like it was between all of us—a lifetime ago?
She just glares at me. “Javitz would be so disappointed in you,” she says finally, surely knowing that’s the cruelest thing she could say to me. “He didn’t leave you that money just so you could squander it all away.” She hustles Gertrude off into the crowd.
I just stand there. It’s as if she’d just slapped me across the face. I don’t move, don’t blink. Anthony returns and waves his hand in front of my face.
“You okay, Jeff?”
“No.” I down the last of my wine. “I want to get out of here. I don’t belong here.”
“We can’t leave. Henry’s over there. Shane and Brent, too.”
I’d actually been looking forward to getting the chance to throw some attitude Henry’s way, laying the guilt on him for being so out of touch. But now, after Chanel’s little scene, I don’t have the heart for it. Instead, I greet Henry warmly, hugging him close, doing the same to Shane and—saints preserve us—even to Brent. I’m glad to see them. I relax a little in their presence, keeping as far from my old friends as I can.
Where the Boys Are Page 22
